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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25621762">gingerbread stars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/janewestin/pseuds/janewestin'>janewestin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Mary Poppins (Movies), Mary Poppins - P. L. Travers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Edwardian lesbians, F/F, I really am Charles Boyle, Maybe it’s not love, Mutual Pining, Rare Pairings, Repression, Slow Burn, Suffragettes, come for the tags stay for the ust, hair porn?, hand flex energy, sexually charged minor physical contact is my kryptonite, starched and debauched, the slowest burn, this is niche fandom okay, wlw</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:07:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,808</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25621762</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/janewestin/pseuds/janewestin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Wife, mother, suffragette. Ordinary. Unremarkable.</p><p>Except where Mary Poppins is concerned.</p><p>(author’s note: this might be my favorite thing I have written)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>George Banks/Winifred Banks, Winifred Banks/Mary Poppins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatrice_Sank/gifts">Beatrice_Sank</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Well, guys, I’ve been totally blocked since the pandemic started, but I read Our Sisters’ Sisters by Beatrice_Sank at the exact time my daughter decided she loves Mary Poppins, so ofc this had to happen.<br/>(Beatrice_Sank, this is for you, from an Internet rando, because you broke my block and I am so grateful!)<br/>Hope you all are safe and healthy. Thank you for sticking with me and reading. x</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Summer.</p><p>Emmeline had opened the parlor windows, but as there was no breeze, this only meant that Winifred had spent the afternoon in combat with flies as well as the sweat dripping onto her sewing. </p><p>Sylvia, counting. “One hundred and eighteen.” She held an expectant hand out to Winifred.</p><p>“A moment.” Snap of the thread between her teeth. She handed over the final sash.</p><p>“I had hoped we would make it out before evening,” Emmeline said, reaching to turn on a lamp, and missing entirely the furious flash of her daughter’s eyes. Annie and Christabel had not materialized, though they had returned from Eagle House three days prior. </p><p>“Winifred has to go <em>home</em>,” Sylvia said, turning her dagger gaze from Emmeline. </p><p>Winifred flinched. “I’m tired, in any case,” she said, lamely, folding her needlebook and replacing it in her sewing basket. “Do give Christabel my regards.”</p><p>*</p><p>It meant nothing, Winifred told herself. </p><p>She could feel strands of hair rebelling against the humidity, curling away from her careful chignon to plaster themselves against her neck. Her shoulders ached; Emmeline’s chairs were not suited for sewing. She hadn’t needed to spend the entire day on sashes, but home had been intolerable since that day three weeks ago. </p><p>It meant nothing.</p><p>Grit in her teeth, throat overexerted and stinging. She’d lost her hat in the crowd. Christabel had dragged her to the front, had practically pressed both of them to the high wrought-iron fence around MP Abigdon’s house. Winifred had stumbled, small stones lacerating her left knee, and suddenly there was a brick in her hand. </p><p>Christabel’s hazel eyes bright and burning, her teeth bared. A crackle of electricity through Winifred’s body, and then she had looked toward the house and thrown.</p><p>A window shattered and the women roared. Someone thrust her backward—“run, love, run”—Christabel’s hand viselike on hers, small bones grinding painfully against each other, her shoulder nearly torn from its socket as Christabel took flight. There were magistrates, she saw now, lurking at the intersection, spurred to life by the splintering crash of Winifred’s brick.</p><p>She ran. </p><p>A heel snapped and she almost tumbled, but the hand in hers kept her upright. </p><p>She ran.</p><p>Limping now, her stride uneven, and at last Christabel made a sharp turn down a street of rowhouses. “Here,” she gasped, pulling Winifred into a narrow alley.</p><p>Winifred collapsed against the crumbling wall. Her lungs burned. “I thought—we don’t run,” she managed to say, once she regained breath.</p><p>“The Commons convenes next week.” Christabel stuck her head out, looked left, looked right. “Can’t be jailed for that.” </p><p>Turned. Met Winifred’s gaze. </p><p>Her hair had mostly come out of its topknot. She was red-cheeked, breathing hard, the knuckles of one hand scraped and bleeding. Fierce grin, eyes still alight. </p><p>“You surprise me,” she said, and that was when Winifred kissed her.</p><p>Christabel kissed back hard, teeth biting sharply into the soft flesh of Winifred’s lower lip, one hand already rucking up Winifred’s skirt with practiced ease. Five seconds, perhaps, or five hours; she shook apart beneath Christabel’s stroking fingers, her head thrown back so far that she could almost see the wall behind her, once she came back to herself. </p><p>Purring chuckle in her ear, low and teasing as the hand withdrew. “Home by six.”</p><p>*</p><p>George hadn’t asked about the heel, or the dirt on her dress. His shift to the blue bedroom was meant to have been a temporary measure to accommodate Michael’s birth. Now the door clicked closed at nine PM, and Winifred no longer missed him.</p><p>*</p><p>It would have been harder if there had been any change at all in Christabel’s demeanor; if she’d looked at Winifred with softer eyes, perhaps, or brushed seeking fingertips over the nape of Winifred’s neck as she passed. But she was steadfastly herself: flirtatious and sparkling, sometimes arriving to their meetings with Annie, and sometimes with others. </p><p>Then: “Come tonight, won’t you?” she’d murmured a week later, her palm on Winifred’s stomach burning through layers of fabric and whalebone. </p><p>“Sewing circle,” she’d told George, who never noticed when she left the house after nine. </p><p>In her hurry, she almost crashed into the new nanny as she exited the nursery. “Excuse me—” out of habit; ridiculous, really, to pardon herself to the help, but—</p><p>Eyes like sapphires, and brighter, somehow, than even Christabel’s. Winifred thought she saw something odd in that expression, but perhaps she was mistaken.</p><p>*</p><p>Annie had taken a billy club to the skull, necessitating the trip to Eagle House, and Christabel was the natural choice for her companion. Christabel loved easily, she loved Winifred, but she loved everyone else, too. It meant nothing.</p><p>She forced a smile when George entered, tamped down the twist of pain in her stomach. “Welcome home, dear”—she said the same every day at six. Brush of his mustache against her cheek as he kissed her, as he took the glass of sherry from her hand. “Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.”</p><p>He read the Bible before dinner, and accounting texts afterward, with a glass of brandy. Wrote letters, sometimes, to his sister. She sat in the corner of the study, unobtrusive, embroidering. <em>Deeds Not Words</em>, nestled in flowers and safely hidden in her hands.</p><p>*</p><p>“Mother?” Jane’s voice. Winifred turned, saw the dressing gowns and matching eager expressions. Jane’s hair, normally curled, was in two neat plaits. </p><p>She knelt. “Children.” Heart surging with love, overriding the dark and tearing thing in her chest. They were solid warmth in her arms, were they really of her body? She had been so different then. “What did you do today?” </p><p>“We went to—” Fleeting furrow of Michael’s brow, a glance at Jane. “The park.”</p><p>“How lovely.” She felt the dull, aching stretch of her nearly-healed knee. Mary Poppins—and that was how the children called her, not <em>Mary</em> or <em>Miss Poppins</em>—so disciplined for someone so young, so proper. Spine straight as an arrow, seams pressed and crisp. You’d never see Mary Poppins disheveled in an alley. </p><p>Sudden vision of just that—an imagined gasp, the flex of slender fingers; high collar catching on Winifred’s teeth, dark and shining hair in her peripheral vision—and Winifred stood up so fast that she was momentarily lightheaded.</p><p>She clamped her teeth down on the tip of her tongue, the pain bright and focusing, and she forced her voice a half-octave higher. “Have you had your dinner?”</p><p>Jane looked at her oddly. “Mother?”</p><p>It was past eight, of course they had. “Yes. Yes, darling, I’m sorry, I only—” She shook her head. </p><p>Michael was looking at Jane again, and now Jane returned the look. “Good night, Mother,” she said. </p><p>Four arms around Winifred’s waist, and then their quiet footfalls on the stairs, and then emptiness, again.</p><p>*</p><p>He came to her infrequently—no more than once a fortnight, if that—and she always knew, could hear the change in his patterns through the shared wall. He cleared his throat before opening her door. A habit, perhaps, or a warning.</p><p>She was warm with him. Willing, although she doubted very much that he had any inkling of what her body could do, given the opportunity. She hadn’t, either, until that day in the alley. There was a crack in the ceiling and she gazed at it as he moved against her, thinking of cracks in sidewalks, in walls. </p><p>If she closed her eyes, she could fall backward in her memory, feel the sharp grind of stone against her scalp. Christabel had a satin pillowcase. </p><p>He pulled back when she clutched at him, his eyes dark with puzzlement, and she let go. </p><p>*</p><p>She’d removed the clocks from the bedroom after Michael was born, him having been both irritable in nature and easily wakened by small noises. Still, her sense of time was uncanny, and she was certain it was close to midnight when she finally relinquished any attempt at sleep. </p><p>She crept downstairs, intending a cup of tea or perhaps a biscuit, although Ellen’s room was next to the kitchen and Winifred’s patience for her was directly related to the quantity of her sleep. She decided instead to read in the parlor. Sylvia had loaned her <em>The Ball and the Cross</em>, and she hadn’t quite managed to get it started.</p><p>The floor creaked.</p><p>She looked toward the kitchen, heart sinking with consternation. <em>How</em>? She hadn’t made a sound.</p><p>Footsteps, then, lighter than Ellen’s, and quicker. Winifred had the brief dizzying image of a fairy dancing through her house.</p><p>She appeared in the doorway, cup of tea in hand. Striped pyjamas—no, a nightdress, Winifred supposed, letting her gaze travel down. Hair still primly perfect. </p><p>“Mary Poppins.” Her voice thready, even to her own ears. “I wasn’t—I didn’t expect to see you.”</p><p>Serene smile as the cup of tea was delivered smoothly into Winifred’s hands. “Chamomile,” Mary said. </p><p>She sipped. It was the perfect temperature.</p><p>“An interesting choice,” Mary added, and Winifred followed her gaze to the novel beside her on the settee. “Dueling natures. Two men, or perhaps one.” </p><p>The corners of her lips curved in a faint, enigmatic smile, and then she retreated into the darkness. </p><p>And if Winifred’s cheeks were suddenly burning, she certainly could not have explained why.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The brick, this time, hadn’t been from Winifred’s hand. Had she been six inches to the right, she would have taken the full force of Kate’s derailed throw. It clipped her forehead: sudden blaze of pain followed by a brief white-out. She stumbled.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Oh</em>.” Hands on her arms, hauling her upright. Someone pulled her backward and out of the crowd.</p><p> </p><p>She could feel wetness on her face, much warmer than the sluggish mist of rain that had started an hour ago. The vision in her right eye had turned cloudy red. She turned, bewildered. There was, she realized, still a hand on her arm.</p><p> </p><p>Blue eyes and dark hair. Rosy cheeks, as specified by her children. For a moment, Winifred was utterly confounded by the context—<em>Who are you?</em></p><p> </p><p>“You’re bleeding.” The <em>tut-tutting</em> tone of a slightly exasperated schoolteacher. “It won’t do.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Tuesday</em>, Winifred thought dimly, letting Mary lead her away from the crowd. It was the second Tuesday.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t go home like this,” she said. When she touched her face, her fingers came away scarlet. It was all over her shirtfront.</p><p> </p><p>“I certainly agree,” came the brisk reply, “so a brief detour first, I think.” Her hand warm and firm on Winifred’s forearm.</p><p> </p><p>Someone ought to have noticed, surely, if only because of the blood.It was barely two in the afternoon, and the street was crowded with carriages and pedestrians. But not even the constables turned when they passed.</p><p> </p><p>She blinked against the sting, and when she opened her eyes she very nearly toppled over once more.</p><p> </p><p>“Where—” Trees on either side of swathes of green. Sunlight dappling the gray dirt path beneath her shoes, and not a soul in sight.</p><p> </p><p>She was badly concussed. Annie had had visions of angels after the incident with the billy club.</p><p> </p><p>The hand on her arm tightened as she swayed, then propelled her forward. “Come, Mrs. Banks,” Mary said, her tone a little gentler now. “We’re almost there.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Where is there, </em>Winifred thought, but her feet kept moving, kicking up puffs of fine gray dust.</p><p> </p><p>“It was raining,” she said in a small voice.</p><p> </p><p>“Was it,” Mary said, in a tone that made it entirely unclear if her words were a question or a statement.</p><p> </p><p>Winifred’s head throbbed. She was starting to feel slightly dizzy.</p><p> </p><p>“A few steps more.” Mary’s hand slid to her elbow.</p><p> </p><p><em>To where</em>? Winifred started to say, but then she looked up.</p><p> </p><p>It hadn’t been there a moment before, she was certain of it, the path had wound through increasingly dense trees, but now—</p><p> </p><p>It was a tiny, squat cottage, with a thatched roof and a heavy wooden door. Stepping stones at the front. Flowers in a box below the single window. There were fluffy round shrubs on either side of the footpath.</p><p> </p><p><em>I’ve been here before</em>, Winifred thought, but that wasn’t right, was it? She had never seen a cottage like this, much less been in one. She’d been raised in London, and the closest she’d come to the deep woods was the edge of Epping Forest.</p><p> </p><p>And then—</p><p> </p><p>She stopped.</p><p> </p><p>Impatience on Mary’s face: the slight press of her lips, a tiny crease in her brow. “Mrs. Banks,” she said. “No dallying, please.”</p><p> </p><p>She’d heard Jane murmuring to Michael about a fox-hunt and a carousel, a chalk painting, a chorus of animals. Childish nonsense, she’d thought, and she’d shushed them, for George disliked fanciful tales.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s impossible,” she whispered.</p><p> </p><p>The corners of Mary’s mouth twitched, as though a smile was trying to escape. “Oh, I think you’ll find that there are very few things in this world that can be described as such.”</p><p> </p><p>“But how—” Winifred broke off. She’d watched her mother: trembling beads of linseed gleaming gold on the dropper, the scrape of knife against palette; minute movements of the brush as fairy-tale thickets emerged on the canvas. She’d lifted the drape, once, when she was about seven and her mother was at the market; dipped a brush in half-congealed paint and made a stroke. Lapis blue, horrifyingly bold across the robin’s-egg sky.</p><p> </p><p>“I like it,” her mother had said thoughtfully, and turned the bright smear into a winged nymph, hovering eternally over the thatched roof of an elven cottage.</p><p> </p><p>The very cottage, it seemed, that stood before her.</p><p> </p><p>Winifred actually scrubbed her eyes like a child, only dimly aware of the flare of pain that accompanied the pull of her brow.</p><p> </p><p>“Come, Mrs. Banks,” said Mary Poppins now, guiding her toward the door, “there are things that must be done.”</p><p> </p><p>There was no lock, only a cheerful round knob in the exact center of the door. It seemed that Mary had only touched it with her fingertips, and the door creaked open. She went in first, moving her hand to encircle Winifred’s wrist, as though not entirely convinced of Winifred’s ability to remain upright.</p><p> </p><p>Slatted walls in warm red-toned wood, floor shiny in spots with wear. A small fire crackled cozily in the stone fireplace, although the single room was comfortably cool. There was a brass-framed bed in the corner. Two improbable wingback chairs opposed each other near a wrought-iron table, where a bud vase boasted a single pink tulip.</p><p> </p><p>“Sit, please.” Mary’s tone had gone brisk and professional, and Winifred found herself impelled irresistibly toward one of the chairs.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll bleed on it,” Winifred said faintly, hovering.</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing that can’t be fixed with a sturdy rag and a good strong arm,” Mary said. She took hold of Winifred’s shoulders and gently pushed her down into the chair, then turned to open a tall wardrobe that had appeared out of nowhere. She reached inside, and Winifred heard an absolute cacophony of clangs and crashes before Mary emerged holding a small black case. “An ounce of prevention, et cetera,” she added, putting the case on the table.</p><p> </p><p>“Is worth a pound of...what, exactly?” Winifred said, looking down at the mug of tea that had materialized in her hands.</p><p> </p><p>Mary’s laugh was so unexpected that Winifred forgot, for a moment, the bizarreness of it all. “That’s the spirit.”</p><p> </p><p>She began pulling things out of the case: tiny bottles, large bottles, a roll of bandages. And then: a decanter of water, a folded hand towel, an enameled bowl easily twice the size of the case.</p><p> </p><p><em>I must apologize to Jane</em>, Winifred thought. She put the tea on the table.</p><p> </p><p>“Now then.” Mary poured water into the bowl and dipped the edge of the hand towel into it. “Close your eyes, please.”</p><p> </p><p>She wasn’t a child, she was perfectly capable of ministering to her own wounds, and yet—</p><p> </p><p>Gentle fingers on her cheekbone, the soft wet heat of the towel smoothing over her skin. She was grateful for her long sleeves and high collar, for she had broken out in goosebumps.</p><p> </p><p>“It was an accident,” Winifred said, a meaningless utterance. She was suddenly desperate to defuse what had become almost stiflingly intimate. Her heart, she realized, was pounding.</p><p> </p><p>“As so many things are,” Mary said mildly. The towel moved from her forehead to just below her brow, careful motions. The press of Mary’s fingertips as a counterpoint made Winifred feel as though she was falling backward into an abyss.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to do this.” The words came out higher than she’d intended, almost a squeak.</p><p> </p><p>Mary’s breath against her skin, <em>oh</em>. “Mrs. Banks,” she said, her tone entirely unchanged, “I assure you, I am never motivated by obligation.”</p><p> </p><p>Winifred opened her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Mary didn’t meet her gaze; she was looking at Winifred’s forehead. But Winifred could see, now, that her cheeks were a little rosier than they’d been a moment before. That a few dark wisps had come away from her perfect bun.</p><p> </p><p>“There,” Mary said, sounding satisfied, and then she was gone, turning back to her bottles and bandages, none of which she had so much as touched.</p><p> </p><p>Winifred reached up cautiously, probed the place where the brick had hit. No pain. Not even, she realized, a break in her skin.</p><p> </p><p>She opened her mouth to thank Mary, to say <em>something, </em>but Mary spoke first.</p><p> </p><p>“We haven’t time to scrub the rest, I’m afraid,” she said, reaching into the wardrobe again. “I hope these will do.” And held out a collared shirt and skirt exactly like the ones Winifred was wearing.</p><p> </p><p>Winifred stood and took them, feeling dazed. “Yes,” she said, looking down at the clean garments, seeing that even the green thread she’d used to replace one of the shirt buttons was the same. “Yes, thank you, Mary Poppins.”</p><p> </p><p>The flush in Mary’s cheeks deepened, or was it the light of the fire? She made a little throat-clearing sound. “You are not a charge, Mrs. Banks,” she said, after a moment. “Mary will do.”</p><p> </p><p>“In that case.” Winifred looked away, her heart now threatening to beat its way out of her chest. “In that case, please do call me Winifred.”</p><p> </p><p>Mary’s lips parted, just a little, then smoothed into a firm line as she turned to open the cottage door. “When you’ve finished,” she said, and gave a funny little nod as the door closed behind her.</p><p> </p><p>It was on the tip of Winifred’s tongue: <em>Stay.</em> But that was nonsense, that was dangerous, that was—Christabel was safe, everyone knew who she wanted, who she liked. And Winifred wasn’t <em>like that</em>, it was just that Christabel was so vibrant, so brilliant.</p><p> </p><p>Imagine, though.</p><p> </p><p>Mary in the wingback chair, watching with glowing eyes as Winifred shed the bloodstained clothes. Worn wood floor hard against Winifred’s knees—<em>imagine</em>. Pushing away skirts and petticoats, crisp fabric gone wrinkled with the movement of it; the taste of her.</p><p> </p><p>Her limbs felt lax and heavy, and her face was hot, as though the fire had suddenly realized it was derelict in its duty. She unbuttoned her shirt with tingling hands, shed the skirt. Stood in her corset and undergarments, one hand on the back of the chair. Imagine if she came back in now, imagine. She was standing in a painting, after all.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Very few things in this world.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>But the minutes passed, and the door did not open, and somewhere outside the cottage walls was a damp London street lined with cherry trees.</p><p> </p><p>Winifred reached for the clean clothes. They held Mary’s scent, but they felt exactly the same.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That the door opened onto Cherry Tree Lane was, at this point, almost unsurprising. Winifred, hoping against hope for the forest, for the rustle of starched white fabric within arms’ reach, very nearly did not step through. She could close the door. How long, she wondered, would it take for Mary to return?</p><p> </p><p>A fanciful thought. Her children would be waiting.</p><p> </p><p>She looked back, but all she saw was a street lamp, and Ms. Lark’s Andrew, trotting happily along the walk. She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Had it been slightly louder, one might have thought it was a sigh.</p><p> </p><p>“Ahoy! Mrs. Banks!”</p><p> </p><p>Red-faced and jolly, one hand arcing in a wave, which she returned. She didn’t routinely shout back, but today:</p><p> </p><p>“Admiral! Can you tell me the time?”</p><p> </p><p>He disappeared for a moment, then his head popped back into view. “A quarter three,” he boomed.</p><p> </p><p>She gave him a little nod, realized he wouldn’t be able to see it from so high up, and waved again. “Thank you!”</p><p> </p><p>“My pleasure, dear lady!”</p><p> </p><p>An hour, give or take. An hour to traipse dreamlike through a forest. She touched her unmarked forehead.</p><p> </p><p>But dreams faded, the edges going blurry, the faces morphing from one to another without method. The details of the cottage were as sharp as one of Cook’s knives. And she doubted very much if she would ever forget the feeling of Mary’s touch.</p><p> </p><p>She was at the gate now, her feet having carried her down the familiar street by habit alone. Tea. She needed a cup of tea. With something stronger in, probably.</p><p> </p><p>Shrieks from the nursery, the clatter of toys. She heard Ellen’s indignant squawk—Michael knew precisely how to irritate her, and did it often.</p><p> </p><p>Winifred’s head began to ache. Tea, yes. But she’d skip the sherry, after all.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>By dinner time, she was beginning to wonder if she had, in fact, imagined it all. George arrived home from work already cross; the children, who had been forbidden to leave the premises by an irritated and increasingly frazzled Ellen, were particularly capricious during the meal.</p><p> </p><p>The enameled bowl had been blue, with yellow flowers—or had it been yellow with blue? Six bottles lined up, three small and three large. The tulip on the table had been pink. Winifred absently brushed her fingers over her cheekbone, her forehead.</p><p> </p><p>“Winifred!”</p><p> </p><p>She snapped back to herself. George was staring at her. Michael was flapping his hands at Jane and shrieking as she picked peas out of his hair.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, dear?” Smile. Eyes wide. Not a hint of what was in her head.</p><p> </p><p>He was looking at her now as though he’d never seen her before in his life. “The children,” he said pointedly, indicating the peas now scattered on the floor.</p><p> </p><p>Peas could be swept, couldn’t they? “What about them, dear?”</p><p> </p><p>Incredulously: “Their behavior, Winifred! Abhorrent!” He cleared his throat. “Control them,” he said, more quietly now, as he tugged at his tie, “can’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>She looked down at her untouched plate, then at Jane’s wide hurt eyes, at Michael’s baleful sulk. Stood.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, dear,” she said, and if this time her words were a little cooler than before, he didn’t seem to notice.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Halfway up the stairs, Jane stopped and pulled her hand out of Winifred’s. “What are you doing, Mother?”</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever do you mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“Ellen puts us to bed,” came the churlish reply at her other side, “when Mary Poppins isn’t here.”</p><p> </p><p>Winifred bristled. Drew herself up a little, and tightened her grip on Michael’s hand. “Well,” she said. “Tonight, you have me.”</p><p> </p><p>She took a step and Michael lagged. She glanced down and saw, for just a split second, the entirely unreadable look he exchanged with Jane.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>They weren’t asleep, not even close, and their solemn gazes followed her out the bedroom door and into the hall. They were oddly formal with her as she laid out pyjamas, as she brushed Jane’s hair, as she watched them clean their teeth. They didn’t ask her for a story, as Jane had when she was very small. Winifred sometimes heard Mary singing to them. They didn’t ask for that, either.</p><p> </p><p>When had her children become strangers?</p><p> </p><p>She went into her own room wondering if, perhaps, more than an hour had passed in that phantom cottage, and if somehow, in the meantime, she had missed their childhoods entirely.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Tea, and her book, and the parlor. Again.</p><p> </p><p>This time, though, Winifred went with intent. She would wait for Mary to come back, would ask her what, exactly, had happened that afternoon. She would have Sylvia’s iron will. Would persist until she had an answer.</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t hear the click of the lock, nor the sound of the door opening, though it squeaked at every other time. Just the footfalls, brisk and light in the foyer. She stood, palms sweating.</p><p> </p><p>Fingertips on her cheekbone, so gentle. The puff of breath on her lips.</p><p> </p><p>She stepped into the hall just as Mary raised one foot to climb the stairs. Winifred opened her mouth to stop her, to ask, but the words died in her throat.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t that Mary looked anything less than her usual crisp and orderly self. Even her hat had stayed at a perfect angle, despite the late hour. It was only that her eyes were so very, very tired.</p><p> </p><p>“Mrs. Banks?” Inflection unchanged, but Winifred heard beneath it an exhaustion that was painfully familiar.</p><p> </p><p>She fumbled for a response, her words tripping over themselves as they tumbled out of her mouth. “I should like,” she started, and paused. Looked away. Tried again.</p><p> </p><p>“You seem tired,” she said at last, simply. “May I bring you tea?”</p><p> </p><p>Mary went very still. The hand on the stair-rail fell to her side.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” she said, and she didn’t quite meet Winifred’s gaze. “That would be—yes. You may.”</p><p> </p><p>Then, as though breaking free from a spell, she started again up the stairs. She didn’t look back.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>If Winifred gave even the slightest pause, her actions would have seemed outrageous. Improper, at the very least. Bringing tea to her employee. In her bedroom. In the middle of the night.</p><p> </p><p>Winifred was beginning to doubt that she had any insight about any of her actions at all, these days.</p><p> </p><p>She made two cups, intending to bring her own to her room, but: “Come in.” Cradling the embossed china, the cuffs of the striped nightdress barely revealing the delicate bones of her wrists.</p><p> </p><p>Winifred turned. Soft rattle of cup against saucer, and Mary reached out to steady Winifred’s hand before tea sloshed onto the floor.</p><p> </p><p>The breath seized in her throat. She nodded.</p><p> </p><p>This had always been the nanny’s room, a single brass bed and small mirror, the flowered wallpaper unchanged since Jane was born. But did this room look larger now? Dim and rosy light from a tasseled lamp in the corner, and where had the vanity and small tea-table come from?</p><p> </p><p>Mary moved behind her, and Winifred realized she was pulling one of the scrolled chairs away from the table.</p><p> </p><p>“Winifred,” she said, nodding at the chair, as though her greeting earlier had been a test that Winifred had satisfied.</p><p> </p><p>She sat, placing her cup beside Mary’s on the table. Crocheted doily. She’d never seen it before, but nothing, now, seemed surprising.</p><p> </p><p>“There are some answers,” Mary said, still standing, “that can never be unknown.” She wasn’t looking at Winifred.</p><p> </p><p>But that was obvious, wasn’t it? You couldn’t <em>unknow</em> something you’d learned. Unless—</p><p> </p><p>Oh. She wasn’t talking about answers at all.</p><p> </p><p>Winifred felt her chest clench tight. It made her spine straighten, made her feet press hard into the floor. She looked up at Mary.</p><p> </p><p>“Those are the answers,” she said, deliberately matching Mary’s syntax, “that I least wish to unlearn.”</p><p> </p><p>Something flashed in Mary’s eyes. She took a breath. Her cheeks, Winifred saw, were no longer pale. She no longer looked tired.</p><p> </p><p>She turned. Glanced at Winifred over her shoulder as she moved toward the vanity and sat.</p><p> </p><p>“Deeds, not words,” she said, almost too quietly to hear, and raised her hands to pull the pins from her hair.</p><p> </p><p>Winifred stood.</p><p> </p><p>If Mary had looked up into the mirror, she could have met Winifred’s eyes. It took more effort, Winifred thought, to keep her gaze steadily downturned.</p><p> </p><p>The soft <em>clink</em> of a hairpin hitting the vanity. Mary’s hands lifted again, but this time Winifred caught them.</p><p> </p><p>Soft inhale at the touch, and Mary let Winifred gently lower her hands to the tabletop. And now her gaze did flick upward. Eyes like blue fire, belying the serene expression, and Winifred burned.</p><p> </p><p>She let go of Mary’s wrists. Straightened.</p><p> </p><p>She hadn’t realized, until this moment, that she had imagined what Mary’s hair would feel like. Hadn’t realized, and hadn’t known how wrong she would be.</p><p> </p><p>Impossibly soft. Sliding like silk between her fingers as she began to gently untuck each strand from its pin. Longer than she’d expected, and curled from the style, or maybe she had curls anyway. Winifred wanted to keep her eyes on Mary’s, but she found herself unable to loosen the pins blindly, and she finally had to look down.</p><p> </p><p>Goosebumps on the back of Mary’s neck. Her hands on the tabletop were flat, her fingertips white, as though she was pressing them there to quell a tremble.</p><p> </p><p>One at a time, each lock loosed from restraint, until Mary’s dark hair fell like a waterfall around her shoulders. And now her eyes were shut tight, her lips pressed together.</p><p> </p><p>Winifred was close enough, now, that she could feel the heat from Mary’s back on her stomach. If she took a quarter step forward—</p><p> </p><p>She splayed her hands, nails scraping lightly against Mary’s scalp, and she heard, now, Mary’s soft hiss of breath. Felt her stiffen, her shoulders drawing up.</p><p> </p><p>She bent, feeling hot and brazen, and let her lips brush the shell of Mary’s ear as she whispered.</p><p> </p><p>“Deeds, not words.”</p><p> </p><p>Mary’s harsh exhale, long and shaking. Utterly motionless, even as Winifred slipped into the hall and closed the door.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>How many times, she wondered, would she tell herself that it didn’t matter?</p><p> </p><p>Not a word, not a touch. Not a hint of what had transpired between them. She’d waited in the parlor each night to see if Mary would emerge. Two hours, then three, and Mary did not appear.</p><p> </p><p>On Friday evening, after the children had gone to bed and George’s door had closed for the night, she went up to Mary’s room. Stood outside, and actually lifted her hand for a moment to knock. Realized, her knuckle a quarter-inch from the wood, that she had no idea what she might say. She had jerked her hand back as though burned, and slunk back to her room like a scolded puppy.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t as though Mary had been <em>cold</em> to her, necessarily. She had still smiled, and offered the usual pleasantries, and given her a report of the day after the children had been bathed. And again, as with the cottage in the woods, Winifred began to wonder if it had been a dream, after all. Some kind of feverish delusion, brought on by the childish infatuation of a very silly woman.</p><p> </p><p><em>Mrs. Banks</em>. Coral lips clipping the B, the hint of a pink tongue curling against the final S. She’d called Winifred by her Christian name exactly once: that strange, wondrous night in the bedroom. She could still feel the slip of Mary’s hair between her fingers.</p><p> </p><p><em>Were you so unaffected</em>? Gazing at Mary as she helped Jane into her yellow coat.</p><p> </p><p>Goosebumps on the back of her neck. That long and shuddering breath at Winifred’s whispered promise. And her eyes, now, as impenetrable and inscrutable as a frozen lake under a blanket of snow.</p><p> </p><p>“Spit-spot, children,” Mary said, and Jane and Michael flitted to her side like butterflies to a flower.</p><p> </p><p>“Goodbye, Mother.” First one, then the other, distractedly. They barely afforded her a glance.</p><p> </p><p>And Mary hadn’t even given her that.</p><p> </p><p>The door closed behind them—cool morning breeze, the first hint of autumn—and she was left alone in the foyer, hands full of leaflets and buttons, but empty, all the same.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>She knew, even before he spoke, that something was coming.</p><p> </p><p>Ten years of marriage yielded precious few advantages, but a degree of prescience regarding George’s moods was one of them. She flinched to hear the clatter of small feet on the stairs, the clamor of their delighted voices.</p><p> </p><p>She’d been surprised many times over the past weeks, though, and it wasn’t impossible, was it, that George might surprise her too?</p><p> </p><p>Jane, high and excited: “Mary Poppins says that if we’re very good, she’ll take us there again.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mary Poppins said that, did she?” Tight fury behind the words, and Winifred’s heart sank. “Will you please return to your room.”</p><p> </p><p>Oh, the way he said it, as though they were employees dismissed without severance. She took a step towards the foyer, but George was still speaking.</p><p> </p><p>“Mary Poppins, will you come with me, please.”</p><p> </p><p>Her heart sank even lower. She’d heard this preamble before. Six times, in the past six months. Nannies called into the office, given a lofty speech about society, and morals, and behavior, just before George ordered them to clear out their things.</p><p> </p><p>She could stop this<em>.</em> “Good evening, George.” Her brightest smile. She glanced at Mary, quickly, but Mary’s face was like carved marble, and she didn’t return the look. “Is anything the matter?”</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t meet her eyes, just kept glaring at Mary. “I’m afraid there is,” he said, tightly.</p><p> </p><p>Another look at Mary. <em>Please</em>. Let me help you. But the sapphire eyes never even flicked her way.</p><p> </p><p>She was hit, suddenly, with a wave of loathing for her husband so overpowering that her head spun. Sour taste in the back of her throat—oh, she actually might be ill. “I’d love to stay,” she managed, trying to get past George, “but I—I have to dress for my rally in Hampstead.”</p><p> </p><p>A lie, of course, not that George would question it.</p><p> </p><p>“Winifred.” That tone, the one that cowed her, that made her hate herself for retreating. “It is my wish that you be present.”</p><p> </p><p>She’d done it before, and she did it now, forcing down the nausea and arranging her face into an expression of mild compliance. “Oh yes, George. Of course.” Nails digging into her palms hard enough to draw blood.</p><p> </p><p>And then—</p><p> </p><p>She should have expected it, for Mary had some kind of magic about her, didn’t she? George’s monologue derailed, Mary deftly rerouting the topic entirely, and by the time she gave George her back, he had agreed to take the children to the bank the following day.</p><p> </p><p>He stared after Mary, then turned his bewildered gaze to Winifred.</p><p> </p><p>“Winifred.” Voice a little paler now. “Did I—did I say that I was going to take the children to the bank?”</p><p> </p><p><em>Careful</em>. He seemed to have forgotten his intent to send Mary packing, and the last thing Winifred wanted to do was remind him. She sat down, for he disliked her to stand during their discussions, and this conversation needed to come to an end.</p><p> </p><p>“It certainly sounded that way, dear,” she said. Tone pleasant, unquestioning.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” He seemed to puff up a little, with the assurance that it had been his own idea. “And why not? A capital idea.” He picked up his pipe. “Just the medicine they need for all this slipshod, sugary female thinking they get around here all day long.”</p><p> </p><p>She had to bite back the abrupt white-hot impulse to lunge at him, to slap him across his pompous, domineering face. She knotted her hands together.</p><p> </p><p>“Quite right,” he muttered, now wandering toward the stairs. “Good idea. Quite right.”</p><p> </p><p>She stayed like that, breathing deeply, for a long time.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>She had a reason, now.</p><p> </p><p>Not wanting to come empty-handed, she had made two cups of chamomile. The tea had become an ingress of sorts, she thought, setting one of the cups on the hall console table in order to knock. Two quick raps, not too loud, just in case George was still awake.</p><p> </p><p>The door opened almost immediately, as though Mary had been expecting her—but that was wishful thinking, wasn’t it?</p><p> </p><p>She hadn’t changed from the day dress she wore when home with the children. High lace collar, a carved cameo at her throat. The only item she’d removed was her starched white apron.</p><p> </p><p>“Mrs. Banks.” A polite, impassive smile. “I’m afraid I was just about to prepare for bed.”</p><p> </p><p>Pale limbs lax in sleep, dark hair falling over parted lips. Winifred clenched her jaw against the image. “I wondered if I might come in,” she said, hearing her voice stiff and forced.</p><p> </p><p>Something flashed across Mary’s face, so quickly that had Winifred even blinked, she might have missed it. A minute creasing of her brow, the corners of her mouth pulling tight for an instant, and then the frozen lake once more.</p><p> </p><p>It was as though a weight had been lifted from Winifred’s shoulders.</p><p> </p><p><em>Not so unaffected, perhaps</em>, she thought, as Mary wordlessly stepped back to allow her entry.</p><p> </p><p>Winifred turned just long enough to gently push the door closed. She put the tea—her key to admission, scented herb become piaculum—on the table.</p><p> </p><p>“I wanted to—” Hands twisting together at her waist. “I’m sorry. About George.”</p><p> </p><p>The furrow in Mary’s brow stayed, this time. “I beg your pardon?”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s not—he means well. I only—”</p><p> </p><p>Mary cut her off. “Winifred.”</p><p> </p><p>Winifred’s name transformed into a shard of ice, razor-sharp and aimed directly at her heart. She stopped talking.</p><p> </p><p>“You oughtn’t—” Mary stopped. Closed her eyes for a moment, tipping her face heavenward before she spoke again. “If Mr. Banks wishes me to receive an apology, he is very welcome to offer it himself.”</p><p> </p><p>Winifred felt her cheeks heat up. She looked down, away from Mary’s scathing expression. Felt the shame of it threaten to engulf her. “Yes,” she said in a small voice. “Of course.”</p><p> </p><p>And suddenly Mary was <em>there</em>, eight inches away, her hands coming up to wrap around Winifred’s elbows. Winifred was so startled that she forgot to look away.</p><p> </p><p>Blue, burning through to Winifred’s very soul. “You are,” Mary said tightly, “no one’s atonement.”</p><p> </p><p>The warmth on her arms turned abruptly cool as Mary let go and stepped back. Winifred tried to speak, but no words would come. So she did the only thing she could think to do, as her voice had vanished.</p><p> </p><p>She was a half-inch too far away. Her fingers grazed the back of Mary’s hand and curled around empty air.</p><p> </p><p>She could have admitted defeat, then. The look on Mary’s face told her that she’d grant Winifred grace, would act as though it had never happened. They could continue to coexist, orbiting about each other, the children their only common gravity.</p><p> </p><p>It was not enough.</p><p> </p><p>This time, it was Winifred who closed the short distance between them, and Mary did not step back. Winifred was close enough, now, to hear the breath that was not quite steady.</p><p> </p><p>She reached again, and this time found what she sought. An unfamiliar expression on Mary’s face as Winifred’s hand wrapped around hers: bemusement, tinted with something that looked almost like pain.</p><p> </p><p>A light smattering of freckles traversed the bridge of Mary’s nose and reached to the angle of her jaw. It was here, just below a curling wisp of hair and a velvety earlobe, that Winifred gently pressed her lips.</p><p> </p><p>Sharp gasp. Mary’s fingers curled tight around Winifred’s.</p><p> </p><p>And she didn’t move away.</p><p> </p><p>Whispered words against Mary’s skin. “May I?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” The response sharply enunciated, carried on a breath exhaled too quickly.</p><p> </p><p>Another kiss, close-mouthed and soft, chaste but for where it fell. Mary’s pulse thrummed allegro beneath Winifred’s lips; the lace collar brushed her cheek.</p><p> </p><p>A hand on her waist, cautious, pressing. Slight shift as Mary turned and gently nudged Winifred away from her throat. Winifred pulled back, dismay already carving a chasm into her chest, and then Mary ducked her head and caught Winifred’s lips with her own.</p><p> </p><p>A rush of vertigo, that feeling of falling. She thought, now, that she could live in it.</p><p> </p><p>It was over almost as soon as it had begun, and Mary’s sudden retreat was so overwhelming that Winifred almost felt like crying. But the hand on her waist tightened.</p><p> </p><p>Forehead tipped to forehead. Inhaling the single word Mary spoke, so soft it was almost inaudible.</p><p> </p><p>“Tomorrow.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> Tomorrow </em>, it turned out, was an unmitigated disaster.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She’d found a note slipped under her door in the morning. Mary’s neat, unmistakable handwriting on one of Winifred’s own calling cards: <em> The apple cart, four o’clock </em>. Such an odd meeting-place--surely streets had names for a reason!--but the little old woman’s cart was a fixture in their borough, and Winifred had no intention of being late. </p><p>
  
</p><p>The best-laid plans, et cetera.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She had one hand on the knob when the doorbell rang. Upon pulling it open, she was confronted: Jane’s doe eyes wide and miserable, Michael’s face streaked with dirt and tears. And Bert--dear, kind Bert--delivering them into her hands like the most precious of parcels. Another abscondence. Their expressions told her they knew the consequences would be dire.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She looked at the clock: a quarter to four. “Ellen--”</p><p>
  
</p><p>The reply came immediate and sharp. “No, ma’am. I haven’t done me brasses yet.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Acrid desperation in her throat. “Well, will you ask Mrs. Brill?”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Not for a hundred quid, ma’am,” Ellen said, with a little snorting laugh. “This here is baking day, and you know how cook is.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“I can take them, Freddie, for an hour or so.” Bert tousled Michael’s hair. “Be like when they was babes. No nappies this time, though, eh, Jane?” A wink.</p><p>
  
</p><p>It was on the tip of her tongue to say <em> yes, please, yes </em>. She pictured Mary, waiting by the apple cart, one foot tapping impatiently, and finally giving up. She thought of Mary’s lips against hers. Of never again feeling the warmth of her touch. The children would forgive her; she was their mother, after all.</p><p>
  
</p><p>They didn’t protest. Didn’t even move from Bert’s side. It was Jane who decided it: Jane, with her eyes full of hope, even as she waited for Winifred to disappoint her once again.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She reached, took their shoulders, drew them to her. “No, Bert,” she said. “It’s not important. I’ll take them up.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>A nod. “Right.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Bert.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>He turned. Waited, expecting her to change her mind, as she had so many times before.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Michael’s hand, small and warm, found its way into hers. She breathed against the sudden expansion and contraction of her heart.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Thank you,” she said, finally.</p><p>
  
</p><p>A grin. Soot-blackened fingers just brushing his cap. </p><p>
  
</p><p>“Any time, Freddie,” he said.</p><p>
  
</p><p>*</p><p>
  
</p><p>Baths: first Michael, then Jane. Fresh pyjamas and dressing gowns. She was combing Jane’s wet hair, trying not to think of Mary at all, when she realized that Jane was crying.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Oh, my dear.” She dropped the comb. Her daughter felt strange in her arms, a tangle of limbs twice as long as Winifred remembered, but Jane folded into her embrace as though she was a child of three. “What is it?”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Michael was watching them from beneath two extra blankets, his small face stony. “Father doesn’t love us.” </p><p>
  
</p><p>He made it almost entirely through the sentence with six-year-old bravado intact, but Winifred saw his lip begin to tremble. </p><p>
  
</p><p>“Come here,” she said, and held out an arm.</p><p>
  
</p><p>He was almost always reticent with her, these days, but to her shock he pushed back the blankets and crossed to Jane’s bed. Climbed up, and tucked himself against Winifred’s side.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Your father,” she said, and sighed. “Your father.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Silence. Both of them motionless, waiting. </p><p>
  
</p><p>He would undo it all when he returned home, she was certain. Any reassurance she could offer would be shattered by the first words he spoke to them. </p><p>
  
</p><p>But she was their mother, and she would try. </p><p>
  
</p><p>“Your father is not a perfect man,” she said, cheek pressed to Jane’s hair. “He has--ideas--about how things should be. About how they are.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Michael, scowling: “He’s wrong.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Sometimes,” Winifred said. “But <em> you </em> are wrong about one thing.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>He stiffened and tried to pull away, offence deepening the scowl. “I am not.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“You are.” She tightened her am around him. “He does love you. He loves you so, so very much.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Jane’s voice was small, pitifully plaintive. “He doesn’t act like it.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>The brick to her head had hurt less. “I know,” Winifred said, forcing her voice to stay steady. “He doesn’t always. But he loves you. I promise you, he does.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Pie crust promise,” Michael mumbled into her dress. It was something Mary had said--what was it? Easily made, easily broken.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“No, darling.” She kissed the top of his head. “Diamond promise.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“What’s that?” Angling to look at her, narrow-eyed.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She smiled. “Priceless,” she said, “and absolutely indestructible.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>He sniffed, but the crease between his eyebrows had faded. He pushed away. “I’m hungry.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Yes, of course.” It was past their dinnertime, she realized. “Let’s see what Cook has baked today, shall we?”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Jane slid off her lap and she stood, looking up just in time to see the flash of a red hemline, and hear the soft click of Mary’s door, closing down the hall.</p><p>
  
</p><p>*</p><p>
  
</p><p>George did not arrive home at six. </p><p>
  
</p><p>She’d made them a tray and hurried them to the nursery--”a picnic,” she’d told them, with one ear cocked for the door. It was better, she thought, that they stay out of sight. </p><p>
  
</p><p>But six o’clock came and went, and George didn’t return. Nor did Mary emerge from her room, a fact that twisted Winifred’s stomach with nearly as much anxiety. By seven-thirty, with the children tucked into bed and the lights turned low, she was starting to worry.</p><p>
  
</p><p>At eight, the door flew open.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She dropped her embroidery. Was halfway to the door before she even realized she was standing. </p><p>
  
</p><p>He was red-faced and perspiring, and oh, he must be really furious, and--</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Winifred!” </p><p>
  
</p><p>She was off her feet, spinning, her hands flying up in shock. When George let her go, she stumbled. Would have fallen, had he not caught her about the waist. </p><p>
  
</p><p>“What an absolutely <em> glorious </em> evening, Winifred, wouldn’t you say?” His hands on either side of her face. She was too startled even to return his kiss. </p><p>
  
</p><p>“I--George, dear, what--” </p><p>
  
</p><p>He let go. “Marvelous news, Winifred, marvelous news indeed, yes.” The flush in his cheeks, she realized now, was not anger at all. His grin threatened to fly right off his face.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“George?” She couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Just waited, hands still lifted, as though held there by suspense.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Mr. <em> Dawes </em> , the senior--” Almost chortling now. “After Jane and Michael’s departure, oh yes, there was an absolute <em> panic </em> , it was <em> chaos </em>--”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Good heavens. Was he suffering a complete collapse?</p><p>
  
</p><p>“And who do you think, Winifred, calmed all those patrons, that galloping horde?” He preened, chest puffing out. “Who spoke reason to the unreasonable? And indeed--” spinning her again--”managed to soothe two additional investments from the agitated crowd?”</p><p>
  
</p><p>She blinked. “You, George?”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Me!” George roared, letting go her waist and doing a little side-step dance across the room. “And Mr. Dawes, the senior, saw that my <em> rightful </em> place, <em> well-deserved </em>, Winifred--”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Not the board!” He’d talked about it since Michael’s birth, with the wistfulness of a man whose fate was already set, and for a moment she was swept right alongside him. </p><p>
  
</p><p>“<em> Yes </em> , the board!” George snagged her hand and pulled her in. “A fine, <em> fine </em> salary, Winifred, and a house in the city besides.” He waved an arm emphatically. “No more cannons, no more country silliness.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Winifred fell still. Stared. “You don’t mean--we’re not <em> moving, </em>George, surely?”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Well, of course we are, Winifred!” He tossed his hat at the hat stand, missing the hook by eighteen inches. “There are residences--it’s part of the <em> position </em>--Winifred?”</p><p>
  
</p><p>She didn’t turn around. Didn’t stop moving, despite his calls for her, until she was in her room with the door safely locked.</p><p>
  
</p><p>*</p><p>
  
</p><p>He didn’t seek her out, after that. She’d learned long ago that a retreat to her room earned her hours--sometimes days--of solitude, as he considered her silence a “woman’s issue” and assumed she’d return to him when she’d regained her senses. </p><p>
  
</p><p>She sat on the bed, heart hammering. The city. A house on a busy street, cobblestones and dirt. No grass, no gardens, and all of her friends miles and miles away. No Ellen, no Mrs. Brill. And Mary--</p><p>
  
</p><p><em> Mary </em>. </p><p>
  
</p><p>She had to apologize. Had to do something, anything, to make up for her absence at the apple cart. That, at least, she could control. </p><p>
  
</p><p>She stood. Smoothed her dress. Went to the door and opened it. </p><p>
  
</p><p>“Thank you,” Mary said, and stepped into the room.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>jfc can I write ANYTHING without turning it into a SAGA</p><p>sex scene alert!!!!</p><p>and here’s a painting I did from this chapter bc I’m self indulgent https://thejanewestin.tumblr.com/post/629224212919353344/scene-from-my-fic-gingerbread-stars</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Winifred stared.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“I was--” she started to say, but Mary interrupted.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Mary turned, closing and locking the door. She looked softer, Winifred thought, with her hair around her shoulders, but her expression was a mystery, and the twist of guilt in Winifred’s stomach wound tighter.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“I’m sorry.” <em> Believe me </em>. “I wanted to come.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Winifred.” Mary reached out. Caught both of Winifred’s outstretched hands. “I know.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>And then she was pulling, gently, bringing Winifred’s hands to her heart, and Winifred’s body to her own. </p><p>
  
</p><p>“The children,” Winifred said faintly, for Mary <em> couldn’t </em> know, could she, how terribly wrong the day had gone. “They ran away again, and George--”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Oh,” Mary breathed, “<em> do </em> stop talking about George--” and kissed her.</p><p>
  
</p><p>It wasn’t like the previous night. It wasn’t like anything Winifred had ever experienced in her small, ordinary life. No messy clashing of tongue against teeth, no scrape of stubble, no hands pushing at her--Mary’s lips on hers were fierce, unsparing, practically perfect.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She realized, abruptly, that Mary’s grasp had slid from her hands to her wrists. That she had pulled Winifred’s fingers toward the high lace collar of her shirt. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Winifred froze, her pinky nail sliding lightly against the mother-of-pearl button at Mary’s throat. Mary drew back, just a little, and met Winifred’s gaze</p><p>
  
</p><p>“If you please,” she said quietly, and released Winifred’s wrists.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Winifred thought of George, clearing his throat outside her door. Of the crack in the ceiling. Of Christabel’s satin pillowcase, and the way she tossed Winifred’s skirts back without a second thought.</p><p>
  
</p><p>She hadn’t been asked before. Not like this. Not ever.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Mary’s gaze on hers, unwavering, even as her cheeks flushed and her breath came short and quick. Her hands hovered an inch from Winifred’s, a silent inquiry. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Winifred rolled the smooth edge of the button between her fingers, once, then tipped it against the fabric. Pushed.</p><p>
  
</p><p>The collar parted, and Mary’s eyes fell closed. She sighed. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Winifred, dizzied, emboldened, went to the next button, and the next. Buried her lips in the hollow of Mary’s throat. Sharp gasp in her ear as she freed the fine lace hem of Mary’s shirt and slipped one hand beneath, then: </p><p>
  
</p><p>“I dislike--” another quick inhale at the scrape of Winifred’s teeth across her collarbone-- “the imposition of silence, particularly when there are such unfortunate consequences for breaking it.” She pulled back. “Would you mind if I--” and glanced at the door.</p><p>
  
</p><p>When Winifred opened her eyes again, she saw fine-grained wood, and a stone fireplace, and a wide, soft bed with a brass frame. The tulip in the bud vase, this time, was red.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Mary glanced around, looking rather pleased with herself. “Much better,” she said, and might have made more self-congratulatory noises, had Winifred not slipped a hand round the back of her neck, and pulled, and covered Mary’s mouth with her own.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Soft murmur against her lips. “Here.” And she released the remaining buttons herself, letting the crisp white blouse fall in a heap.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Arms pale and lovely in the firelight. Sheer chemise, and an old-fashioned corset cinched tight. How, Winifred wondered, did Mary do it up herself?</p><p>
  
</p><p>In any case, she was very happy to assist in its divesting.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Then let me--” Sliding her hands over the tightly-stretched fabric, turning Mary in her arms until she was directly behind. She untied the corset laces, loosening and loosening and loosening, and by the time she reached around to unhook it, Mary was lax against her, eyes closed and head tipped back to rest on Winifred’s shoulder. Parted lips. Breath drawn deep, wavering. Winifred’s hands flat on Mary’s stomach as the corset fell, her skin hot through the chemise. </p><p>
  
</p><p>No rush, now. They weren’t off in a bedroom after a meeting, or down an alley in broad daylight. No rush, and she could--</p><p>
  
</p><p>Mary turned, muffling her soft moan against Winifred’s throat. Winifred did it again: one hand sliding up, tentative. Tender flesh budding hard and dark beneath her palm. She was suddenly desperate to be rid of all of this absolutely <em>tedious</em> clothing. She wasn’t graceful about it, finding the fastenings of Mary’s skirt, but utility occasionally had to triumph over form. The skirt joined Mary’s blouse on the floor. </p><p>
  
</p><p>She realized, then, that her legs were trembling with their combined weight, and simultaneously remembered that there was a perfectly good bed in the corner of the room that was going to utter waste.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“If we might,” she murmured into Mary’s ear, nudging, and Mary was turning in her arms, pressing full length against her, tongue just brushing Winifred’s lips as she moved them both toward the bed. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Mary in the wingback chair, head thrown back, clutching. It had been a hopeless fantasy, thrust like a scandal into the recesses of her mind. </p><p> </p><p>She was pulling Winifred toward her, now, as she lowered herself onto the bed, but Winifred resisted. A flash of trepidation in Mary’s blue eyes. A flicker of uncertainty on her flushed face. </p><p>
  
</p><p><em> Don’t </em>, Winifred wanted to say, and instead she brought her hands to the front of her dress, and Mary’s expression melted into understanding. </p><p>
  
</p><p>She’d never undressed for anyone. George sometimes pulled her nightdress off, but more often just pushed it up and out of the way. Her tussles with Christabel were too frenzied for complete disrobing. </p><p>
  
</p><p><em> Breathe </em>. Her hands shook with nervousness. She couldn’t meet Mary’s gaze. But she kept on, one button after another, until the dress could be parted and pushed aside.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Will you?” she said, and Mary was there in an instant, the corset loosening, air flooding into her lungs. She unhooked it herself, and tossed it as she turned--flung it, really, utter abandonment--and took a deep breath, and lifted the chemise over her head. </p><p>
  
</p><p>She did look at Mary then. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Eyes wide, and bright with desire; blue swallowed by black. High flush in her cheeks. She was breathing hard. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Winifred demonstrated exemplary restraint for precisely three seconds. </p><p>
  
</p><p>If lips didn’t crash before, they did now. If touches had been hesitant, now they were desperate, reckless, seeking. A gasped “oh <em> please </em>” in her ear as Winifred yanked off Mary’s chemise, very nearly tearing it.</p><p>
  
</p><p>They tumbled, Winifred’s thigh slotting between Mary’s, slick heat against her skin, <em> oh. </em> She was moving, surging like the tide, had she ever moved like this before?  And Mary beneath her, wordless moans tumbling unheeded from her lips.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Hands on her hips, tightening. Her body moved as though of its own accord and she heard, dimly, the sound of her own voice as she ascended inexorably toward release. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Gasping. Her body convulsing, rocking hot and sweet against Mary’s. Shuddering moan against Mary’s throat. </p><p>
  
</p><p>“Don’t--” Mary’s voice, tight and desperate. </p><p>
  
</p><p>It took her a moment--longer than she would have liked, given the circumstances--but the handful of rendezvous with Christabel had taught her celerity, and she had always been a quick study. </p><p>
  
</p><p>She slid down Mary’s body in one swift movement. Tucked a shoulder beneath each thigh as Mary twisted and arched. “Oh--”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Bliss. Winifred closed her eyes. She wasn’t particularly artful, but Mary didn’t seem to mind.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>weirdly I feel like this story actually ended at chapter 6, which has never happened to me before?! i wrote it four different ways before settling on this epilogue. :/</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> epilogue </span>
</p><p> </p><p>Autumn.</p><p> </p><p>It’s cool these days. Jane’s yellow summer jacket has been replaced with one more suited for fall, and Michael’s short pants have been lengthened against the chill. The pink cherry petals tumbling down the lane have given way to leaves of crisp red and gold. </p><p> </p><p>The children return from the zoo with their prizes: a stuffed cat for Jane, an enormous candied apple for Michael. Their cheeks and noses are pink with the chill. </p><p> </p><p>“Can we go again tomorrow?” Michael chirps, mouth ringed with red.</p><p> </p><p>“Now, Michael,” Mary Poppins says from the staircase, firm but kind, “your father is a very busy man, and—”</p><p> </p><p>George, interrupting. “Nonsense.” He has only two days a week with the children now, and he finds, to his surprise, that he rather misses them when he’s in the city. Each Saturday, they seem taller than the last. “Now then. I think Cook has made a pumpkin pie.”</p><p> </p><p>Shouts of excitement as they release his hands and run toward the kitchen. George turns his eyes to his wife, standing on the stairs just behind the nanny. Somberly now: “Winifred.”</p><p> </p><p>She replies in equally measured tones. “George.”</p><p> </p><p>“I trust you’re well?” A dart of his gaze toward Mary Poppins, watchful and unyielding.</p><p> </p><p>“I am, George.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Well.” He looks down at the hat in his hands, then back up at her. “I’ll take them tomorrow, then. If that’s—if you don’t mind.”</p><p> </p><p>He misses her, too, although not in the way he thought he would. It’s new, this distance between them, and a bit bewildering. He asks for things now. Sometimes she says no. </p><p> </p><p>A small smile. “That would be fine.” </p><p> </p><p>Only three months ago, she would have come down the stairs, taken the hat from his hands. She doesn’t say <em> yes, dear </em> any more. </p><p> </p><p>He nods, clears his throat. Takes a sidestep to hang his hat on the stand. “I’ll see about the pie—the children.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s not a stupid man. Foolish, certainly, but not stupid. And Winifred has never been subtle in her affairs. Even before this business with the nanny—the slipping out at night, and returning before dawn—well. It was better not to know. </p><p> </p><p>He loves her, of course, she’s his wife and that means something, but it’s easier now, being away.</p><p> </p><p>He glances back just before he enters the kitchen. Her hand is on the nanny’s waist; she’s murmuring something. They don’t notice him looking, and he feels a pang of sadness, suddenly, at the way Winifred smiles at her. She smiled at him that way, once. </p><p> </p><p>“Father!” Jane’s voice, from just inside. It sounds very much as though she has a large mouthful of pumpkin pie.</p><p> </p><p>He pushes the door open. Two shining faces, sticky with sweets and flushed with adventure. Michael thrusts the candy apple in George’s direction. “Hold this,” he instructs. </p><p> </p><p>A bit sad, yes, but dwelling on it won’t help anyone, will it?</p><p> </p><p>And in any case, the wind has changed, and his children are waiting.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>fin</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>for those of you who powered all the way through: thank you for reading this little rarepair fic (and my reintroduction to writing after six months away)! if you liked it, please do consider leaving a comment--I'd love to hear from you!</p><p>(ps: the title refers to a part in the book wherein mary poppins and mrs. corry glue the wrappers from gingerbread stars to the night sky, and then they become actual stars. i just liked the idea of taking something ordinary and making it shine. then again, mrs. corry also breaks off her fingers and gives them to people to eat, so... )</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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